Listen to the Whistle in the Rain
An oncoming train rumbles the platform
where we stand, I see fear,
reflected in my neighbor’s eyes.
A whistle resonates in fog,
that heavy mist rising from hot land
after a hard rain.
Funny how we thought the storm was done,
but that pause was just the earth settling,
hunkering down for a major quake.
Suddenly it is real. We can see the train arriving,
and we’re waiting at the station
with tickets in our hands.
.
.
.
.room with amenities
fully furnished with
the sigh of the wind
a clock tick tock ticking
its pendulum in swing
with the creak of the ceiling
the echo of a door slamming
a clean spot on the wall
where a picture had been
a phone
that won’t ring
Waiting for First Light
The rain is pounding
on the window, trying
to get in. I am overwhelmed
by the sadness
of your going. I look
at your picture, try to remember
how soft your voice
when you said goodbye,
and then I realize
this is just a dream,
not the part about your going,
that could be as it seems.
It’s the believing
that you were ever here
that’s so unreal.
